The Times They Are Changing
by marinoa
Summary: In the modern world, the Nations are long since forgotten. Arthur struggles to come to terms with the situation and Francis struggles to make him see some light in the dark.


**The Times They Are Changing**

Initially, Francis allowed, it might have been an accident. It had been raining the previous night, and the wooden boards of the pier were slippery, so it was no wonder that Arthur had slipped. He had slipped, and fallen on his hands and knees. There had not been any danger of him falling over the edge of the pier into the black water, Francis was certain of that. But then he had seen Arthur's eyes fixing on the waters beneath, and he had acted on impulse, before Arthur would even _think_ of it. Yes, it had started as an accident, but Francis had seen the shadow pass Arthur's eyes, and that shadow was not a stranger to him.

So, he grabbed Arthur's arms and hoisted him on his feet. "Up," he commanded sternly.

Arthur blinked, as if only then realising what he had been _about_ to think. "Uh, thanks."

Francis eyed him suspiciously. The shadow that had passed his eyes promised no good, that the Frenchman knew from experience. That same shadow he had seen not only in Arthur's eyes, but also in the eyes of every other Nation. Sometimes he saw it in his own reflection as well, though, lately, rarer and rarer. It was the Englishman he was worried about; of all existing Nations, it was perhaps Arthur who had the most tendency for self-harm.

"Cut it."

Francis' gloomy thoughts were cut off by the sharp tone of his companion. Arthur was staring at him with a steady look in his eyes, and Francis knew that the Englishman knew what he had been thinking of.

"Cut it, I said," Arthur repeated. Francis released his shoulders but said nothing – he didn't have to. They had known one another for a hundred lifetimes and more, and for them, there was no concealing thoughts from each other.

Arthur frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. Grey clouds gathered behind his back, the wind tore at his short hair. "I'm _fine_," he said, pointedly. Then he cursed, because the wind threw the end of Francis' scarf into his face, and turned away from him, to face the murky sea.

Francis did the same, and both of them resumed to silence. Eventually, Arthur would talk; it was easy to see that something was bothering him, and it was not hard to guess what exactly it was. Ever since the Nations had been forgotten by their peoples, had been _forced_ to be forgotten, gloom had been their companion more often than not. They had been on top of the world too long to accept being cast aside quietly, but they weren't able to change the situation, and so all they could do was talk about it. That way, at least they themselves remembered the truth of what they were – had once been – still were.

Finally Arthur spoke, as Francis had predicted. He spoke slowly, thoughtfully, but not hesitantly in the slightest. "I have been thinking," he said, and his tone revealed that he indeed had been dwelling on the matter quite a while. "I have been thinking what would happen if I died." He looked at Francis, and in his eyes the Frenchman saw that it was now England speaking, not Arthur.

Francis had no answer to his question, but he knew that Arthur wasn't expecting one, so he let him unburden his mind.

"What would happen to England, if I ceased to exist?" Arthur was looking into distance. "What would England be without _England_?"

Francis furrowed his brows. Each and one of the Nations had been wondering what would become of their countries without them, but Arthur had obviously given more time to those thoughts than could be healthy for him.

"You forget that probably it's not possible for you to die and leave your country behind."

"Probably, you say. Rome is gone."

"Rome expired along with his Nation. There was no 'Rome' after he... faded away."

"That was then," Arthur argued. "Now it's different."

He had a point, Francis had to admit. Times had changed, and, for the Nations, not for the better.

"At that time, we still mattered. Ruled." Arthur's tone grew bitter. "We were the centre of everything, but now our own people don't even know that we exist. There is no saying that, in this time, fading away is impossible for us."

Francis felt his heart darken. "_I _haven't faded," he said, firmly. "And I have been forgotten for much longer than most of you."

Arthur didn't say anything to that, but Francis wished he had. He didn't want to sink in those terrible memories again, didn't want to remember the anger, confusion, and fright. He had managed to crawl out of the dark pit by himself, and he didn't want to fall into it again. But still, it was impossible to forget all the madness, to forget how the head of his beheaded king had been shown to the shouting crowd, only to be followed by many, many others. During the years that had followed the Revolution, during that insanity and bloodshed, France's own people had started first denying his existence, then truly forgetting him, and so France himself had fallen into the same spiral of madness with his people. When it had ended, only very few people – his people – remembered that there had once been _France_, once been him, who was them all.

Napoleon Bonaparte had been one of those few. He had remembered France, he had known who he was, he had known his human name. Bonaparte had sought France out, and he had returned to him his place beside him, the ruler of the country. For that short moment Francis had become France again, he had been, as Arthur had expressed, the centre, he had stood where he belonged. France had been so indescribably glad to be acknowledged by someone again that he had followed his Emperor to war with pleasure. But the glory had been short-lived; from the start, Bonaparte had refused to let his subjects know that Francis Bonnefoy, his closest man, was in fact the Nation of France. And when victory had been followed by victory, Bonaparte had become more and more paranoid, and less and less willing to share his glory. It had not taken long for the day to come when the Emperor could no longer tolerate a thought of there being somebody, who could threaten his position in any way, somebody, who was higher than him. _"_I _am the heart of the Empire! _I_ am France!"_

France – Francis – had been locked away, in a house in some remote area of France, and Napoleon Bonaparte had made sure to destroy the last memory of there once being a 'France'. And so, when Bonaparte had died, there was no human left to remember that there had once been _France_.

Arthur knew about all that, now. They hadn't been on exactly good terms at the time when it all had happened – well, France had hardly been on good terms with any European country during Napoleonic Wars, so other Nations had found out about Francis' new situation much later, after the wars were over.

"I can't comprehend how you managed to stay sane after all that," Arthur muttered, drawing Francis from his dark memories. Then he reconsidered. "Well..."

Francis elbowed him – gently, because he was thankful to him for ending the silence. "I fought it. And that's what I suggest for you as well, unless you wish to fall into madness."

And suddenly a new memory appeared before the Frenchman's eyes – a pleasant memory, a picture of Arthur and himself from a lifetime ago, when Arthur, hight barely reaching an adult's knee, would hide somewhere to cry over this or that, and Francis, a child himself, would be there to give his brotherly advice and consolation. A lopsided smile appeared on the Frenchman's lips. They had been so young and inexperienced and naïve, and Arthur had looked up to him for his advise, and Francis had thought himself capable of giving good counsel.

From those times, only little had changed. They were both more experienced now, and less naïve, but Francis still considered himself the wiser of the two, and Arthur still came to him for consolation, and, yes, for advise as well, despite usually managing to mask it rather well.

Arthur glanced at him suspiciously. "What are you laughing at?"

"Nothing," Francis answered. "It's just that some things never change. Here we stand, like when we still were children, and big brother still has to take care of you."

Arthur smacked Francis on the arm. "Shut it, you," he said, but Francis glimpsed a smile tugging at his lips. _Oui_, some things never changed.

Arthur sighed dreamily. "At that time, all was still ahead." His smile dropped. "And now, all is behind. I see nothing in the future."

"Arthur-"

"We used to rule the world, damn it!" Arthur suddenly yelled, jerking his arms in poorly suppressed anger and frustration, giving Francis a good start. "We used to be the heart of our nations, we _mattered_! We were the leaders of our leaders, we were in the centre of the battlefields. Hell, we _were_ the centre of the battlefields! And what have we become? Nothing! We were alive back then, we were alive in our own people, and now we are dead!" His fists were shaking. "Worse than dead," he continued quietly, voice thick with bitterness. "We are forgotten. And the ones who forced us to be forgotten were our own leaders!"

Francis grabbed Arthur's shoulders and squeezed, his grip hard and unyielding. The body under his hold was shaking.

"We haven't ruled the world for a very long time," he said calmly, not loosening his grip. "You know we haven't. Those times were over as early as in, say, in the sixteenth century."

The wind was cold, but Francis didn't feel it through his jacket. If anything, it was only soothing, to have it struggling to move them both. Arthur breathed it in, the wind, with his eyes tightly shut. "Fuck," he spat, opening his eyes. "I know. I know we haven't. But even then, we were important. We were the base of everything, in spite of humans wanting to do the actual ruling."

Neither of them said anything, then. The sea was getting murkier. Francis still held Arthur's shoulders, and Arthur still let him.

"We should have seen it coming," he finally said. "As soon as humans had tasted real power, we should have known that, eventually, we would be too much for them. They have always been wanting more."

"And they have been taking more," Francis agreed. It was the sad truth: little by little, piece by piece, kings and queens and emperors had been taking more and more responsibilities from their Nations. That way the Nations gradually became less and less visible among their people, and slowly, very slowly, the common people had started to forget. And when the nineteenth century had arrived with the new fancy for the 'Modern Age', leaders of the countries had started to realise, one by one, that the Nations weren't actually needed any more. They had become useless, they had become dangerous reminders of the past, and whatnot. _"There is no place for you as Nations in the modern world,"_ they had declared. _"People need to rule their own lives and their own __countries__ by themselves. You, as Nations, would only confuse them."_

Those were the words that Arthur had heard from Winston Churchill – from the Prime Minister, not even from the King himself! – just on the verge of the Second World War. _"These are difficult times,"_ he had said, _"and_ _the people can't afford to believe in a miraculous saviour like a Nation. They must learn that if they want miracles, they need to perform them themselves."_

About at that same time Germany had been forgotten for good with the rise of Adolf Hitler. Russia had been discarded already earlier, when Vladimir Ilyich Lenin had announced him to belong in the old world, with no place in the new one. For Spain that process had been difficult and bloody, in the midst of a civil war, and America just couldn't understand how he, the hero, was not needed by his people at such terrible times. The sad fact, however, was that by the middle of the nineteenth century, no living human had a memory of there once being Nations to represent them.

"How dare they," Arthur snarled through his gritted teeth. "We have existed since the world started to form into the one we now know. We were here thousands of years ago, and they, mere humans, _they_ say that they _don't need_ us! That they manage on their own. That we, who have seen the world change, who have changed it ourselves, we belong in past!"

"Arthur."

"Do they think they know better than us?" Arthur kicked at the leg of the railing. "They have been here only an eye-blink in comparison to us."

"Arthur." The green eyes turned to the blue ones instantly, and Francis saw that they were full of pain... and fright. Yes, that was the core of everything, wasn't it, the fright, and the feeling of deception.

"How could they just throw us away?"

Arthur's voice had lost all its fury. Now all that was left was tired defeat.

Francis had no answer for him, so he brushed the Englishman's hand with his own, and Arthur's fingers intertwined with his.

"They have forgotten us," Francis said, "but we haven't. We exist, despite everything, we exist, and we remember. Whether they know it or not, we are their Nations, and we are still here."

"And for what?" Arthur snorted. "To watch what they do with this world, without having any part in it ourselves?" There was the shadow again, in those brilliant eyes. "What use is there for us to live, Francis?" Arthur asked, and it was the hollowness of his voice that made Francis' heart clench. "What is there left for us? We are excluded from this world now."

Francis would have given anything to fill that emptiness with hope. "We are here for our countries," he said sternly, willing the shadow away from that heart... and failing. How could he drive the darkness away when it hadn't truly left even himself?

"They don't need us."

"You don't know that."

"They know that."

"And how could they know? You said yourself that they have been here but an eye-blink."

"What about us, Francis?" Arthur suddenly asked, and the fear in his eyes struck the Frenchman. It wasn't often that Arthur let such an emotion show, Arthur, who had once ruled an empire upon which the sun never set. Perhaps that was the reason why it all was so hard for him – he had lost, in a way, more than most other Nations. He had been on the very top, and ended up in the deepest pit.

"What about us?" Francis asked cautiously.

Arthur licked his lips, dried by the wind. "When we are no longer significant," he said, "will we disappear?"

"Didn't we already discuss this?" Francis uttered. "Our countries exist, we can't disappear."

"But a country matters less these days," Arthur argued. "With the EU, UN, and the whole fucking globalization, our borders matter less and less. Might be our countries can't preserve themselves, not to mention us."

"I can't believe what I'm hearing," Francis said flatly. "Are you, Arthur Kirkland, _England_, seriously waiting for your country to _preserve_ you?" He snorted. "The England I knew would remain to preserve his own country, not vice versa."

There it was, a small flicker of fire in those green eyes. Francis smirked, and didn't bother hiding it. "You say that we don't matter any more. I say, you are wrong. We must stay here to make sure our people never forget who they are and where they come from. Even if they don't remember us, we must make sure that they remember _themselves_."

Arthur said nothing, and he still looked unconvinced, but Francis found that he, in fact, was voicing his own beliefs. "There must be a reason why we exist," he said, more to himself than to Arthur this time. "Why we existed back then, and why we exist now. Our people needed us then to guide them, and they need us now. That will never change, even if the times have."

"Pretty words," Arthur uttered.

"So you'd rather continue dwelling in self-pity?"

There, a twitch of an eyebrow. There was something to work with. "To guide them, yes," Arthur agreed. "But maybe that job is over now."

"How very rare to see you spiritless like this, Arthur," Francis said disapprovingly. "When America wanted to stand on his own, I certainly don't remember you admitting that your job as a guide was over. Odd to hear you speak so now, and even of your own country."

At that moment the grey clouds proved that they were not hanging on the sky for nothing – it started raining, and raining rather hard. Arthur raised his face to meet the falling water. Francis did the same, and smiled. He had a feeling that something had changed within him. That there, among that nest of darkness, a seed of hope had been planted.

"We will never rule the world as we once did," he said tranquilly. "But we are still part of it." He looked at Arthur with a small smile. "We are Nations, after all."

The Englishman gave him a doubtful look. "We are alone," he said. "And how do you plan on saving your frog pond by yourself?"

Francis raised his eyebrow. "Alone? Arthur, no man is an island."

"Very funny, Francis."

Francis laughed. Arthur glared.

"We are one of a kind among our people, yes," Francis allowed, then. "But do remember _what_ we are, Arthur. We are Nations. We are our people. To your question, the one about us dying, well, what if this is the answer? If you die, England dies. Your people will mix and disappear among other nationalities, and the United Kingdom will be ruled by Scotland." Francis gave a laughter at the face that Arthur made at him. "_Oui,_ you don't want to make that happen, do you? I believe that if you die, your country disappears in one way or another. Your people will lose themselves among all the others in this world. That's why you are still here, and that's why you won't fade away until England is destroyed like Rome once was."

"England will never be destroyed, twit!"

Francis shrugged. "You never know. Stick around to make sure."

It was weird, how Francis' mood had improved so suddenly, seeing as he was drenched with water and starting to feel quite cold. But, for the first time in a very long time, he felt _France_ again.

Arthur sighed, shaking his head a little. "Ever the optimist, aren't you," he said, rather fondly in France's opinion.

"One of us has to be." France knew that the Englishman's waves of depression were not so easily dismissed, but he had a feeling that maybe, somewhere deep within, Arthur had found _England_ again, too.

He took his hand. "Let's go home, England."

And England looked him in the eyes, and said, "Let's."

Francis knew that Arthur would be back on the pier again, with the same dark musings, doubts, and fear. But he also knew that Arthur was a fighter, it was rooted within him, within England. He would rise again. They all would, because whether humans acknowledged it or not, the world was theirs.

X


End file.
